


All the Ghosts in Eden

by shelter



Category: Claymore (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Cynthia acting like a gentleman, Cynthia's drunk too, Dinner, Feeling left out, Helen's drunk, Multi, Raki acting like a gentleman, Reunion Fic, Seven Ghosts, Sparring because Claymore, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, alcohol consumption, reunion of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelter/pseuds/shelter
Summary: On the morning of a reunion between the remaining six 'Ghosts' of Pieta, Raki awakes to finds Clare missing, and the unlikely arrival of another warrior in his town.
Relationships: Clare/Raki (Claymore), Deneve/Helen (Claymore)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	1. House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dawn1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn1000/gifts).



> Quarantine gift for [Dawn1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn1000/pseuds/Dawn1000). Check out her awesome fics!

_"I have made You the Companion of my heart._  
_But my body is available to those who desire its company,_  
_And my body is friendly toward its guest,_  
_But the Beloved of my heart is the guest of my soul."  
\- _Rabia al Adawiyya

.

.

**Part 1: House**

.

.

Raki wakes, his first touch an empty bed, Clare-less. Then something slick and watery.

His eyes shoot open. Blood? No, just sweat. In the diluted light of dawn, the sheets are wet with teardrops and the bureau is completely wrecked.

He sighs. Clare's having another one of her – episodes again.

Raki follows the trail of broken ceramics, punched-in walls and sword slashes out the front door. His first breath outside steams, and cold scrapes at his exposed flesh. On the path away from his house, he spots Clare's footprints. But the forest beyond is entirely still, like a landscape painting.

He goes looking for her anyway. He crosses the forest, smouldering with morning mist, crashing through the undergrowth until he can hear the ocean feasting on the beach. The moment he steps out of the forest cover, the wind punches him in the face.

Like he expects, the sea is empty of ships. Fog chokes the bays and headlands. So Raki wanders until the waves foam around his feet. He surveys the desolate coast for anything: a fire, footprints, a clue to where Clare has gone. Nothing.

Nothing? Something's making his hair stand. It's not the cold. Through the dense shawl of fog, Raki sees someone kneeling by the tidepools.

* * *

Helen hates getting up early. It's too cold and the roads are too deserted for travel. But Deneve insists on reaching Clare and Raki's before nightfall.

When Helen wakes, Deneve's already up and dressed. Did she even sleep at all?

"Come back to bed," Helen says. "Clare and Raki won't know what they're missing."

Deneve guards the window. The moth-bitten curtains are so thin Helen can see the dark pyramid of Mount Shire through them as dawn breaks. Still, Deneve observes the street, an old habit Helen knows she's developed from all those years staying in unwelcome towns while hunting yoma.

"Helen, don't be a sloth. We promised last time to help him with food, remember?"

"Yeah. So? We can help him next time yeah?"

"And since you eat the most –"

"Hey! The food was really good –"

"You're getting soft, Helen."

Before she can reply, Deneve chucks her cloak and Claymore at her. Unable to catch both at the same time, she gets a mouthful of cloak.

The next time she sees Deneve, they're already on the way out of town. The sky's still purplish and the birds are barely singing. But Helen finds breakfast – the local bread is studded with chunks of dried apple – so all is good.

The far west lands of Lautrec smell to Helen of juniper and pine. The sandy, crumbling hills that lead them to the coast are coated with them. Soon the sun has burned away all the morning mist and they're taking the twisting path up the hills and away from the traffic of the main road.

Why Raki and Clare chose this particular valley and village, Helen will never figure out. It's one of the dozen of canyons carved out by rivers draining from Mount Shire like tentacles reaching out to the sea. Doga, where Raki grew up, is nestled deep in one of these valleys, five days' walk away.

If Helen had a choice, she would chose somewhere like Hanel. Market towns are best. There's lots of people and food there. Now if only she could convince Deneve to settle down –

They climb to the very top of the pass, until the snow-streaked Mount Shire looms over them. Directly opposite, at the very bottom of the valley, the sea broods in a sheen of sunshine. Helen takes in the view: probably the only place on the Island where she can see ocean and snow together in a single take.

As they descend, they re-enter the shrubby pine forests, dusted with sea-blown sand. They're reaching their destination, way ahead of time, and Deneve gets talkative.

"You know who I'm looking forward most to seeing again?"

"Huh. I don't think it's Miria."

"Why not? Shame she won't be here."

"It's because she and Yuma are busy doing –"

"Helen -"

"Doing what we do!"

She loves making Deneve blush with her words.

"Why is it always –?"

"You could give Miria some pointers."

Helen catches a punch aimed for the side of her head. She wants to say something else, but Deneve stops. They're just a hill away from Clare and Raki's village.

"Do you sense that?" Deneve asks.

"No. I don't sense nothing."

"Precisely. Not even Clare."

* * *

Cynthia sees Clare before she senses her: a figure kneeling by a creek, just off the main path. As she gets closer, she hears the low drone of a voice. She's certain it isn't Clare's.

"Clare?"

She dismounts a way off, leads her horse towards the creek. A yoki she can't identify strikes at her temples, something powerful but also diffused and uncertain.

She recalls what Raki said once about Clare's – seances, he called it – but she doesn't know the details.

Or what she should do.

"Hey Clare?"

Clare rises, turns to the voice. At the sight of her, Clare gives the slightest of smiles. Then Cynthia sees it: Clare's eyes. Not even silver, but a dull shade of gold.

"You must be Cynthia," Clare says.

"Uh yes. We spent seven years together in the north –"

"Of course. Clare told me all about you."

"Wait – "

"You already know. Search your yoki."

Cynthia does, and the Clare-who-is-not-Clare returns to the creek. When she finds it, that thin thread that has Clare's yoki mixed in it, she backs away.

"Well, Clare," says Clare-who-is-not-Clare. "Talk to you again."

Cynthia sees her. The briefest of glances reflected in the trembling surface of the creek: another warrior with blonde shoulder length tresses, sporting the faintest of smiles –

Something changes in the air. Cynthia experiences it as if emerging from underwater, her ears sealing themselves and exploding. Clare's yoki bursts to life. And the person in front of her stumbles, falling into the grass still flooded with dew.

* * *

The first thing Helen does when they break into Clare and Raki's is to scout for snacks. In the background she hears Deneve complain about the mess, theft and how Raki's almost religiously neat. She shuffles through a floor of sandy crushed glass to reach a platter of fruits – only to notice a Claymore leaning rakishly by the wall.

"They're going to be fine," Helen says.

"You think?"

"Clare's sword is here."

"You know she doesn't really use it right?"

"And I found me some achta. I swear that kid knows the way to my heart!"

"You're hopeless, Helen." Deneve sweeps away the glass with a foot. "Let me see if I can get a fire going."

As she eats, Helen wanders into the boot room. She loves seeing Raki's hilariously humongous sword, and the other strange weapons Raki made during his metalsmith phase. At the threshold, she sees a dent in the wall. Absently she traces it, imaging the delicate force it would've took to curve but not break the wall.

When she enters the room, she sees Raki's sword sunk into the ground like a the steel trunk of a beheaded tree.

The cry of a horse. A flash of yoki. The anguished screech of a door against rusted nails.

And Helen finds herself face-to-face with Clare.

"Oh Clare!"

"Helen did you break down my door?"

"It's been a long time!"

"What's with the mess!"

"It's not me, I swear –"

She follows a rambling Clare back into the main house. Deneve has made some embers glow, and is talking quietly to Cynthia – Cynthia!

"Hello Helen."

"Whoa look at you!"

Beautiful, beatiful Cynthia: beautiful. From her kohl-darkened eyes to shawl that hangs loose by her throat, and those loose layers she wears, she moves like wisp as they embrace. Helen even smells some kind of perfume. Cynthia's grown shades darker too. All that time she's spent among the nomads in the east sets her apart from all of them.

Helen takes Cynthia's hand and bow to kiss it in mock gallantry. Henna whorls up her forearm like a sleeve, and Helen realises that beneath all those layers, Cynthia still has the hardened muscles of a warrior.

"What were you and Deneve talking –"

She sees Deneve slice her hand horizontally across her mouth. So she doesn't ask any further. Why the secrecy?

But Clare's already moving around them, setting things in order. She picks up the chipped glass and throws a cloth over a stain that looks like blood.

"Have any of you seen Raki?" she asks.

"It's just us," says Deneve.

"So, who wants to help me prepare the food?"

* * *

Before he returns, Raki detours to the town to get supplies for the reunion. He brings his new friend with him.

"I hope Clare's back already."

"Would you search for her if she doesn't return?"

"She always does," he says. "And sorry what's your name again?"

The younger warrior brushes a strand of hair from her face. Raki notices she fidgets every time she's addressed.

"Miata," she says. "We met at the Battle of Rabona."

"Ah yeah. Pardon my memory. Sorry to drag you shopping."

She follows him at a respectable distance. As he greets the shopkeepers, they always stare at the warrior shadowing him, standing ramrod-straight, never meeting their eyes. So Raki begins introducing her as Clare's friend.

He's collected the spices he needs, and the bread that Clare likes. He makes a final stop at the tavern, spending the rest of his gold on translucent bottles of clear alcohol with swirling patterns orange and pink.

"That looks strong."

Should he be even talking about alcohol with Miata? How old is she anyway? But he searches his reasoning and believes she's more experienced than she looks.

"Coral whiskey. The westerners make it from grounded coral and fermented rice. Clare and her friends like it because it's strong."

He wraps everything in a leather sack, feeling the weight knead his shoulders.

"So what brings you this far west?" "

Um well – I –"

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I'm tracking an unusual yoki."

"You're sure it isn't the grey lady that lives in the valley north of here?"

"It's not the usual signature."

"Really?"

"Tracker Dietrich says it's not frequent. Very faint. We don't know what it is. So I came to find out."

Raki stops at the intersection that leads to the coast. He eyes this shorter, wilder-looking warrior, her hair side-parted, with a wing covering her left eye. He already knows what she's looking for, and he feels the weight of that truth heavier than any load.

The next thought that comes, though, is an errand:

"Oh. I forgot to check if the musicians are coming."

"Musicians?"

"The warriors like a good party." Raki secures his load, changes direction. "You are coming for the reunion, right?"

* * *

Helen has decided she's not going to do any work.

She watches Clare cut vegetables into finger-sized chunks, and the others help dig a pit to smoke the meat. Wielding a kitchen knife makes Clare look shrunken, Helen thinks, like all the humans she's seen, shackled to the towns she passes.

"Would you mind being less of a slacker, Helen?"

"I've done enough, you know," she says. "While you were playing house with Raki, Deneve and I've been hunting yoma and bandits all through Lautrec."

She sees Deneve try to get her to shut up. But sometimes riling Clare is so – fun.

"Someone has to do the stuff," goes Cynthia, ever diplomatic.

"Eh not me. I just want to fight."

"You know Helen you haven't changed."

"I didn't overthrow the Organisation so I could live like a peasant," Helen adds. "Right, Cynthia?"

When everyone turns to look at Cynthia, she raises her hands, as if to say, leave me out of this.

"Come on, Clare. Let Raki do the little stuff. Fight me!"

"I could take you without releasing my yoki," Clare says without looking up.

"That's it!" Helen draws her sword. "Let's go, Miss Raki!"

She knows she's hit a nerve when Clare stabs the knife into the ground. Deneve is shaking her head and Cynthia tries to calm Clare down. Yes, she could make taking the piss out of Clare a national sport –

"Hello. Everyone's here."

Damn, the kid's timing is just – Is that whiskey?

"You ladies look nicer than ever," he says, kissing both Deneve and Cynthia's wrists. Which makes Deneve turn a little red.

"And you're – um, older?" Helen says. This earns her just a nod, not a gentlemanly kiss.

"I met one of your comrades and invited her to the reunion." He looks back into the house, addresses someone out of sight. "Come in and say hello."

Helen sees a younger warrior with a messy outcrop of straight hair step out from the shadows. That girl! Wasn't she Clarice's – oh –

No one says anything. Clare's eyes narrow, looking from Helen, to Raki, and then to the new guest. Deneve doesn't even look up.

But Cynthia says, "Of course you can join us, Miata."

This is when Helen has her next great idea. Before Miata can join them, she grabs the younger warrior by the shoulder and says, "Hey newbie. Let's fight!"

* * *

With Raki guiding, the pit to smoke the meat is lighted and completed in no time. He and Clare exchange some words – sharp, brief orders in Cynthia's opinion – and they're separate again. Raki deals with the meat, and Clare focuses on finishing the cutting.

Cynthia stays with Clare in the shade of the house. As Clare does the carrots, she skins the potatoes. She thinks they make a good team.

So she can't help herself and asks, "Clare, what happened just now? At the creek?"

"I don't like to talk about it." Clare doesn't miss a beat, beheading carrots with her knife.

"Tell me about your life instead," Clare adds, decapitating the last of the carrots.

Cynthia obliges. "We move every week. I'm on horseback more than I'm on my feet. I never sleep in the same place each night. We go where the grass grows."

"Hard life?"

"Nothing we haven't experienced before."

Before she moves on to eviscerating the onions, Clare pauses. Cynthia stops too. Clare's stare can be both forceful and pleading at the same time.

"Did you feel –?"

"No."

"All I know is that I'm in some sort of trance and Raki thinks that another warrior's yoki takes control of me."

"So you don't remember anything?"

"No."

Cynthia forces herself to look away from Clare's eyes, glassed with uncertainty. All she can think of is the other warrior's reflection in the water at the creek earlier, blonde hair flush like a torrent of gold. It's not possible, is it?

"I have my theories," Clare says, returning to her onions.

"Tell me then."

Clare does. Sitting beside her, Cynthia imagines she's back in the north again, watching Clare tell the story about how she met Raki. Once in a while, Clare makes eye contact as she talks and she smiles. It's such a small thing, but it makes Cynthia's recall how fortunate she is to have such close comrades.

* * *

"You have a habit of attracting the most unstable people," Deneve says.

Raki's started the fire, and now the pit is a pillar of smoke, snaking in tendrils around a chunk of meat. He carves the side of some unfortunate animal into long sheets of bloody jerky. In the background, he hears Miata wiping the nearby field with Helen's hapless efforts.

"You should help her," Raki says.

"And have her resent me to interrupting her muscle flexing contest? No."

"Nothing's changed I see."

"Same for you and Clare." Raki nods, shoots a glance over to Clare and Cynthia in the shade.

"I've buried my sword –"

"Yeah Helen told me about it."

"Isn't it time you did too?"

"I'm no use as a farmer, Raki."

"I mean settle down with Helen."

He's never been so straightforward with her before. After all, Deneve is just one of a collective array of Clare's comrades-in-arms, and he only sees her once in a while. Still, he's always felt that Deneve is the more grounded of all of them.

"Maybe," Deneve says.

"Then we can break into your house instead."

"Very funny, Raki."

But Deneve's pretending to look elsewhere, anywhere but where the sound of swords crying and Helen's grunts of impatience is coming from. Raki leaves the subject hanging. He knows longing when he sees it.

* * *

By the she successfully (in her opinion) bests Miata, Helen feels much lighter and better. She returns to Clare and Cynthia just as they're finishing up.

"Great timing, Helen," Clare says. Then she drops the last onion she's skinning. "That's a lot of a blood."

"What this?"

"Damn it, Helen stop moving. Cynthia can you heal that wound?"

Clare and Cynthia look at her, their eyes roving. She feels a bit strange and tired. Perhaps it's the sweet glaze of victory, a good fight –

"I'm going to get something to patch that up."

"Aww. Don't leave Clare," Helen says. "I'm looking forward to your cooking."

Clare stops, turns. Helen isn't going to apologise for earlier, but she'll accept this peace offering. Using her Claymore as a walking stick, she settles down beside Cynthia. The onions look beautiful, like precious stones.

"Helen?"

"I'm going to fight you later, Cynthia!"

"Em… No."

"You're rusty and out of shape – that's why you –"

Cynthia smiles. Helen's always been entranced by the splash of freckles across her face, the way her fringe pools above her serene eyes.

"Is she okay?" Miata's voice.

"You need to control your strength," Clare says, like she would tell a little child.

"Shush Clare. Don't worry about me kid. You're really good by the way."

"You're in no shape to duel with me Helen," Cynthia says. "Now rest."

She feels the nice, warm touch of Cynthia's yoki suffusing the tightness in her solar plexus. It's just like old times. She's so happy to be around family again.

* * *

"Clare? Can we talk a bit?"

Raki's busy preparing the carving knives and skewers when he sees Clare rushing into their home. He guesses the commotion outside has something do with Helen stumbling about in a post-fight daze.

Maybe now he can talk privately to his partner without the others.

He follows Clare indoors, and finds her retrieving bits of cloth and stitched leather. When he puts his hands on her shoulders, she doesn't startle. Instead, she slouches, as if exhaling all the breath within her.

"I was wondering when you'd corner me."

"So about what happened last night –"

"Same like last time. I don't remember anything," she says. "Just tucking into bed last night, and waking in Cynthia's arms by the creek."

"Nothing in between?"

Clare closes her eyes. "I dreamt I was talking to Teresa."

"Ah."

"I can't even recall what she said to me."

"Your – trances. They're getting more frequent."

"I know."

"And more violent."

Clare turns around to face him. She only breaks eye contact to survey the room. Her eyes seem to alight on a damaged bulge of the wall, the pulp of the wood dusted with the faint prints of blood.

"I'm – not sure if I can stop myself if I get violent again," she says.

It's so like Clare – to look away when she's worried – to speak of uncertainties when she's actually afraid. Sometimes, the way she reacts reminds him of the old Clare from his boyhood: walking around towns swinging that big sword like a buffer between herself and the world.

So, Raki does what his boyhood self would do. He just puts one arm around the isthmus of her waist, threads another across the sharp points of her shoulders and pulls her close.

"I'm not worried," he says.

"I can tell when you're lying," Clare responds, half-teasing, half-impatience.

"So am I?"

Clare tenses, and sighs. Rai feels her breath, a hot geyser against his ear. One of her hands comes to rest in the small of his back.

"All I know is that you smell of smoked lamb."

"And you smell like onions."

"Well, I'm holding the fort for the vegetables –"

"And you need to be a bit more gentle with Miata."

"What?"

"She's our guest."

He gives her a quick kiss, and she finally relaxes. He lays cheek on the sweaty crossroads of her chest, just to hear the beating heart that's only Clare's remind him that the person he loves is not a whisper of yoki or faraway sensations, but thrashing, living flesh and bone.

* * *

Cynthia shaves the top of a potato bud. It nicks her finger. Blood seeps into the pale point of the potato.

She's knows she's the most advanced yoki detector present. So the variations in her comrades' yoki pull at her. But Clare's, most of all, distracts her the most. Add to the residual, low-level anxiety over being found lost and confused, she senses Clare crescendo and gradually taper. Somewhere in the house, she deduces, Clare and Raki are talking.

Her hands decorated with flecks of potato skin, she follows the calm ebb and flow of her comrade's yoki. Miata, who's trying to cleave tomatoes into perfect quarters, probably feels it too.

Raki emerges from the house. There's gait to his walk which appears at ease. He lingers over the huge platter of vegetables, begins scooping them up.

"Thanks for finding Clare just now."

"Ah it's nothing." She adds, "Good talk with Clare?"

Raki nearly drops the vegetables in his arms, but recovers quickly.

"I keep forgetting how you all can sense each other."

"Same like being with a tribe on the move," she says. "Nothing's really private."

Raki's face turns into the blushing colour of soaked carrots. It makes Cynthia want to laugh: he's still like the boy that Clare used to describe, even after all these years.

But she takes in the effort Raki uses to get down on his knees, the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. She's noticed how he's panting after just preparing the pit to smoke the meat. There's even little outcrops of grey in the uneven crags of his hair.

The same Raki that's embarrassed when caught being intimate. The same Raki that treats all of them like old friends, even accepting a stray warrior he found on the edge of town.

In the transition of her thoughts, he's gone, his arms spilling with the vegetables that they've cut. Of all the people present, Cynthia doesn't really know what he's feeling or thinking. Or how he's coping with Clare's – possessions.

"That yoki?" Miata asks.

The younger warriors has assembled an entire troop of quartered tomatoes – cut by her Claymore no less. What kind of warrior keeps their Claymore so insanely sharp, Cynthia wonders.

"Clare's. You recall her from Rabona?"

As Cynthia samples the succulent pieces, Miata turns her head towards the house, like she's verifying an object far away. She single-handedly runs her blade twice through another fresh tomato.

"She has this yoki that I've been searching for a long time," Miata says.

.

.

End Part 1


	2. Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the reunion continues into the night, Miata makes a choice on Clare's 'possessions'. Also, Cynthia gets drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is a gift for [Dawn1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn1000/pseuds/Dawn1000). Check out her work!

**Part 2: Shore**

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.

.

The smoking lamb in the pit shrouds Clare and Raki's home in a permanent meat-scented fog. With the sun falling lower in the sky and shadows extending, Cynthia decides she doesn't want to smell like barbeque. So she leaves the shade of the house where she's roasting vegetables over the coals with Clare.

Her arms ache. The humid air crawls up towards her armpits. Shedding her loose outer layer, she faces a tree, unsheathes her Claymore and sets the entire area on fire with her yoki.

It doesn't take long before her comrades get the hint.

Time to work up an appetite. Time to spar.

"Eh heh heh finally finally," Helen says, swinging her sword on one hand. "I'm going to beat you so bad."

She tries to give Helen her most sympathetic smile: the I-know-you're-no-match-for-me-but-I'll-humour-you smile.

"I'm betting a bottle of coral whiskey that Cynthia'll disarm her in two minutes," Raki says.

"Hey!"

"Two," Deneve adds.

Cynthia doesn't hear the banter. She's just glad to get her Claymore out, and to exert all that suppressed energy. All those years without being the presence of other warriors, the anxiety she sometimes feels around Clare, and the upcoming long journey back to her tribe. She lets it all go.

Into the naked flashing of swords. Into the torque of sharp surfaces smashing.

She sees the surprise in Helen's face when she barrels through her hasty guard. When Helen's long arm comes at her, she feels the swiftness of the move hit her like a strong wind. Once Helen over-commits, she seizes the offending appendage, and warms it around her own arm, pulling Helen to her. Before her opponent can even resist, she has her Claymore lodged in Helen's forehead.

"Ow!" Helen backs away. "Okay okay! How the hell did you learn these moves?"

"Think I spend my time with the tribes chasing sheep?"

"Helen, step aside and let the adults fight."

Deneve enters the fray. Cynthia eyes the dual swords, the dimples of orange sunset caught in their angled grooves. But Deneve first move comes in a whirl of chops, so heavy Cynthia has to dodge. With the second lunge, Deneve reduces the tree to a trunk in a single swipe.

When she looks up, Deneve gives her a suggestive wink while wearing a broad smile.

So this how Deneve flirts in front of Helen, Cynthia thinks. So the next time Deneve comes at her, she charges into the scissoring blades, lodges her Claymore in between them and vaults over, with an elbow at Deneve's nose.

"You're good," Deneve says.

"Thank you."

"May I have your lead?" Raki asks.

"Of course."

"And I'll need to borrow –"

"All yours," says Deneve.

"You sure?" Cynthia asks.

"For old time's sake," he assures her.

Raki's holding Deneve's Claymore as if it's twenty times its size. He staggers forward and when Cynthia strikes, he barely moves. He can't be dislodged by force.

She's seen Raki fight before. She knows that he relies on one or two very deep moves to bring the battle to an end quickly. But this Raki's arms quiver under the strain of holding the Claymore upright, and his movements aren't so fluid.

So Cynthia waits, waits till Raki makes a move. When he does, she parries and goes for the head. She stops just shy of connecting with his skull. 

"Ouch. You've killed me."

"You didn't stand a chance, I'm afraid."

"Stop showing off to the small fry, Cynthia. Fight me."

She turns to see Clare in her traditional stance: one hand flirting with her sword handle perched beside her ear, body arched forward and – a skewer in her other hand?

"Did I interrupt your dinner prep?"

"I'm going to disarm you with this," Clare says, dripping dead with seriousness as usual.

She doesn't even see Clare's hand move, but Cynthia feels the strike almost take the sword from her hand. The second, third and fourth hits all descend before she can even lift her sword to protect herself. One of those blows nicks the tops of her knuckles. Every blow from Clare's Windcutter after that has the hazy whorl of Cynthia's own blood on her comrade's blade.

Cynthia backs away, letting Clare chase her among the matchstick trees. She slows her breathing, then prepares the stances she's learnt from the tribes for close contact. She can do this. She's always been faster than Clare –

With a spurt of yoki she bursts into the vortex created by Clare's Windcutter, inverts the hold on her blade and aims the hilt to graze – just graze Clare's chin.

Instead, the Windcutter comes down on her temple and the skewer empties her fingers from her sword.

The next thing Cynthia sees is the creamy orange light of sunset swirling in the arms of the trees. Her head burns. Helen and Deneve are running towards her. So who's holding her up?

"You all right?" Clare asks.

"Just a headache."

"Looks like I'm still faster."

"Let me take over from Miss Cynthia."

And before she even knows what's going on, Miata's standing in her sun, the long shadow of her sword crossed over Clare's face.

* * *

Raki plasters a compress of day-old bread to Cynthia's temple as Helen tries to heal the warrior's severed knuckles. Just another day with the warriors.

"Is there a lot of blood?"

Raki checks the crimson spreading over his hands. "Not more than usual."

"We must be really nothing but trouble for you, yeah."

"Well, what's a reunion without sparring. Right, Helen?"

Helen gives him a wide smile, all teeth. "Always loved you and Clare because – Oh damn, Raki don't distract me!"

He gives Cynthia the bottle of coral whiskey he's been holding.

"Drink up. Hope it numbs the pain."

"Helen's right. You're a sweet guy."

"Only when you ladies are around," he perks up, scowls at the commotion from the fight. "Now, I may need to break up a fight…"

The first thing Raki sees when his attention returns to the fight is Deneve watching, with a hand covering a frown.

Clare's still defensively waiting in Windcutter position. But the skin has been cleaned from her elbow and she looks like she's lost an ear. Or maybe it's just a deep laceration. Raki's heart skips. He wants to cross – wants to help his partner – but –

Miata moves like a revelation, jumping, swinging, rebounding from anything in the arena to make up for her height and lack of reach. Her hair whirlpools around her face, where Raki can see she has her tongue like a nub between her lips in concentration. When she attacks, she changes direction in mid-air, and Clare has to draw her sword for the first time to avoid losing her knees.

But Clare is Clare. Raki knows she won't back down.

Clare shifts tactics, and she holds her sword out. Raki knows that stance: Quicksword. He's seeing it for the first time in years. 

Miata seems to understand the change in strategy too. Clare lets loose a savage barrage at Miata, who parries every single stroke. With her arm wild, Miata somehow evades the relentless storm of attacks and tangoes in such close proximity that Clare has to step back.

The blur of movement stops. Raki and Deneve see a stalemate of sorts: Miata and Clare, paused as if in dance, the sharp point of Clare's blade on Miata's abdomen, Miata's Claymore on Clare's bicep. Their free hands meet in the middle, where Clare's palm has absorbed a punch by Miata.

Raki thinks Clare looks furious. But when Miata releases her sword's hold, Clare relaxes.

"It's been a long time since someone got through my Quicksword," she says.

Miata doesn't reply. She just tiptoes and cups her hand to the wounded side of Clare's face. In just a moment, the hand comes away to reveal a cleaned wound and an intact ear.

"Your reputation as number four is really deserving," Clare says.

"Why didn't you release your other yoki?" Miata asks.

"What?"

"The other one. The one that's beneath yours," Miata's being insistent. "You could've beat me easily."

Raki decides it's time to break up the discussion. He heads into the fray, takes Clare's hand, and tells everyone, "You all are hungry, right?"

He hopes Clare gets the hint. She doesn't react for a moment. Then, she looks at him strange and mumbles, "yes, the vegetables," and heads off towards the house.

Miata's face is an open question. Raki doesn't doubt her earnestness, and he decides there and then, he'll be honest with her. But how can he explain something he doesn't even understand?

He says, "The ladies haven't had this much fun in a while."

"Why did you distract her?"

He takes a deep breath, knowing what he needs to say, "Miata, Clare is – unique –"

* * *

Even though she's sitting, Cynthia feels the ground's still shaking. Are Miata and Clare dueling again? That would truly shake the earth.

So she leans against the next available wall. This wall breathes though – no, it's just Deneve.

"Had too much coral whiskey?" Deneve asks her.

"Can't help it."

"Yeah. Raki gets all the best stuff."

"Can I stay here for a while?"

"Sure. Rest your head."

Deneve's being so nice. She doesn't hold any grudges and lets Cynthia do whatever she wants. Actually, everyone's being so great. It's just like back home with the fire and the good food and the skewers of the sweetest meat. Only the people around her are those that she'd die for.

There's Helen stuffing almost everything she can get her hands on. She has three skewers of that brilliant smoked meat Raki prepared, and one arm around Clare. Is it the light or is that arms stretching – stretching –

Across her, through the flash of the fire, Raki is teaching Miata something. They're huddled close, their faces illuminated by the light of the flame. Every so often, Raki swigs from his bottle of coral whisky. Miata's hand roams into the nearby pile of roasted vegetables, or dips into the bowl of soup on her lap.

Everyone she loves is here. Can tonight get any better?

Her senses stir at an unknown presence. Raki gets up, and in a moment he's welcoming strangers into the group. She tries to summon the energy to be curious. But then the strangers bring out instruments. Strings, flutes and hand percussion – music!

Raki's on his feet. My, how he can dance. The others are all laughing, even the musicians. But he's so smooth, and –

Cynthia rises unsteadily (with the help of Deneve's shoulder). She joins Raki in on the dance floor. Which is really just the ground where there isn't fire or food. Clare – or is it Miata – begins clapping. And they're dancing, their feet in tune to the beats of the tabla's taps.

She approaches Raki, allows herself to be led by his hands. She feels the ghostly movement of his touch over her body, there but not here. Such a gentleman. She allows him to spin her. She ends up facing Miata.

"Come on!" she tells her.

When Miata shakes her head, she leads her by the hand. Soon she has her arm around Miata's shoulders too.

The ground whirls, and she brings down the younger warrior with her.

"Maybe you should sit down," Deneve says.

"Deneve!"

She has never been so happy to see Deneve. There's joy welling up in her chest that she can't hold in. So she throws her other arm around Deneve and brings her into her circle.

"I love you Deneve!"

Then Miata's smaller voice, a bit miffed: "Is she always like that?"

"I love you too Miata."

"I love you too, Cynthia," Deneve says on everyone's behalf. "Even when you're this drunk."

Cynthia sits up straight. She feels the other two women's warmth. It's this closeness that she misses. She hasn't felt this in years.

All the dancing and declarations have made her thirsty though. She reaches for another bottle from the pile of coal whisky beside Raki. But when she drinks it to her lips, all she tastes is air.

"Enough for tonight," Miata says.

* * *

Helen sees Cynthia's bumbling, stumbling attempts at dancing. When she herself tries to move in step with the rhythm of the tabla, she realises she can't match Raki's complicated feet. She ends up collapsing into Clare.

"Know something?" she says. "This food is good."

"You're welcome," Clare says.

"Being with Raki has made you a better cook."

Clare fires her elbow into Helen. "And I thought you were apologising."

She wants to tease Clare some more, but there's no chance to: Raki scoops Clare to her feet, and the two of them become the focus of the musicians and the rest of the crowd. Their silhouettes outlined in shadow by the fire, the flying embers decorating their feet, their movements as sychronised as two people in love can be.

Helen moves over to where Deneve is watching, the fire reflecting in her eyes.

"You think we can ever be like them?" Helen asks.

"Helen, you dance like a cow on fire."

"No, silly. I mean as – uh – well – just like them."

Helen knows Deneve never dances, never gets drunk. She probably hasn't moved from the same spot all night, even with Cynthia's head occupying a prime space at her back.

But tonight Deneve has a faraway look, her eyes tracking Raki and Clare's movements. When Helen tries to get her attention, Deneve turns to her, engulfs her in a kiss so deep that Helen can taste the alcohol on her tongue.

"Does that mean you'd like a house?" Deneve says. "Give up hunting? Start cooking?"

"No – wait – I mean is –"

"Shut up and kiss me, Helen."

The music is winding down, the night's getting cold and she's just spilled all her food. But Helen feels there's no better place tonight than being in front of the fire, in Deneve's arms.

* * *

When Raki wakes, the first thing he searches for is Clare. But she isn't there.

The reunion's long since over, and everyone has gone to sleep in various spots in the house. The faint smell of the dead fire wafts through the house. All around, the thick darkness of the night bristles with cold.

There's no shattered glass or punches in the walls. Just an open front door. Under a coat of sheepskin, Raki goes out, following an invisible trail through the forest, down across open ground and to the shore. He can hardly make out the smudged nightscape by the light of a waxing moon, but he reaches the coast. The sharp silence of the house gets replaced by the boom and crash of the sea.

Clare is there, standing knee-deep in the shallows, waves parting around her.

Is he dreaming? He isn't sure. Is he still drunk? He can't tell. When he wades into the beery foam sifting up the pebble beach, he shock of cold water causes him to trip.

As he approaches Clare from behind, she holds out her left hand.

"Clare?"

He grips it. She's as hot as fire, literally burning up. When he turns her to him, she has this strange expression on her face, a smile he hasn't seen before.

"Raki?" her voice is otherworldly, floating over the sound of the sea around them.

"You're always out of bed recently."

He looks at her, face illuminated by moonlight, like an icon of a saint. In the black water, he makes out the shady reflection of a person. It's not Clare. Clare doesn't have long, blonde wavy hair. Knowing this makes his hair stand.

"Yes," Clare replies.

"You should let her go."

Clare looks at him.

"You're always in her heart," he says. "Let her remember you for what you were."

Clare laughs. "You're a funny human." That strange, chatty voice again.

"Well, I'm only human."

"Indeed. Let me leave Clare to you. For now."

And then Clare goes entirely limp in his arms. He struggles with her unconscious form, dragging her as gingerly as he can back to the shore. By the time he deposits her on a breakwater, she's cold. Raki wraps his coat around her, the wind pounding in his ears.

So he doesn't notice Miata in the dark until she's right beside him.

"Clare's not herself, is she?"

"No, she isn't."

"Is she a danger? To you or herself?"

Raki looks at Clare, exhausted and faint in his arms. "I don't know. "

He looks into the hair-lashed face of the younger warrior. She has one hand on the helm of her Claymore, like Clare poised to unleash her Windcutter. He stares into Miata's falconite glare. But he knows if Miata chooses to draw her sword, he and Clare won't be able to do anything.

The hush and shift of the waves covers the silence between them. Raki's breathing falls to match the rhythm of the tides.

"I can't do this," Miata says, lowering her hand.

And Raki exhales in relief.

"Thank you," he says.

"You and I will have to find the cause of this," Miata says. "In the morning."

She goes around to the other side of Raki to support Clare. The moment their fingers touch, Clare wakes, her eyes blinking from the depths of sleep.

"Miata? Raki?" she says. "I was inside –"

"Ah we thought we felt something."

Behind them, Helen and Deneve emerge from the darkness.

"If you're all doing something romantic, I'd like to join!" says Helen.

And Deneve: "Sorry guys. Helen dragged me out here."

"Clare went for a walk," Raki says. "So now we're just here. Waiting for the dawn."

"You're a terrible liar," says Deneve. But she still gestures to the empty spot beside him. "May I?"

"Please sit."

"Damn it's cold," Helen says.

Raki watches Helen lean into Deneve, and the other warrior twisting her body to wrap as much of herself around Helen as possible. Helen gives a self-satisfied grunt audible to all of them.

By the time Cynthia shows up, she's still wrapped in a layer of a blanket, wearing it like a hood.

"Remind me not to drink so much again," she says.

"It was so worth it watching you try to dance," Helen laughs.

Cynthia perches herself below them, closest to the water, just below Clare's feet.

When Clare's able to sit up straight, she opens her cloak and beckons Miata into it.

"You look cold," Clare says. "Come in?"

Raki watches Miata look at Clare. Again, there's a moment of hesitation. Before Miata joins her, curling up against Clare, who circles a protective arm around her.

"It's been great having you here," Clare says.

Raki leans back against the rocks. Soon daybreak will drive away the shadowy folds of night, and turn the ominous headlands into seaweed-drenched dollops of cracking green. The swelling tide will be furry with waves as they crawl inland.

But for now the waves storm the shore and then recede in the dark, sighing as they deflate into the sand. Wind glides across the coast, pulling rags of clouds around the moon. Helen yawns. Miata sighs. Cynthia hums a silent tune. He shares a cascade of warmth with Deneve, her thigh abutting his. And on his other side, Clare tucks her fingers into the slots between his.

They sit by the rocks, waiting for whatever will come with the dawn.

.

.

_END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far!
> 
> This is the longest fic I've written in almost 6 years. It was meant to be a one-shot, and it became two chapters because there was just so much content and characters. It's also one of the fics I'm most proud of. Why? Because I've finally written something remotely positive - with Clare & Raki in it no less! - after the end of the manga. I can honestly say my fics are becoming happier.
> 
> This fic wouldn't have been possible without the Germany-based band Shkoon. In particular, their song [Lala](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKd2F10BfeA) \- sung in rural Syrian Arabic dialect about a lover connecting the houses of his beloved with his via swing - was the inspiration behind this fic.

**Author's Note:**

> Headcannon: Clare lives with dual consciousnesses - her own yoki & obviously Teresa's, the strongest of many warriors that she's absorbed over her lifetime. Thinking about how she dealt with it was the main inspiration for this story. 
> 
> Also, I generally like the idea of Miata joining the Ghosts because she's been through a lot too.


End file.
